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<title>That Thunder in Your Lungs by Highsmith (quimtessence)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219716">That Thunder in Your Lungs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith'>Highsmith (quimtessence)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Reconciliation, Semi-Public Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:02:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,697</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219716</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Facing Geralt once more, words come without much input from his brain. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were following me," he snarks. His heart is beating too loudly in his chest. Idly, he wonders if Geralt can hear it, whether that's a thing witchers can do.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"I'm not," Geralt says, deadpan, as if it were a genuine question.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Hmm," Jaskier says. Wants to smack himself for it straightaway.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>77</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1258</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>That Thunder in Your Lungs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I know I posted a "Rare Species" fix-it barely a week ago, but I've had a bottle of wine on my own just now, and my holiday has become me cleaning my house for seven days due to world events, so let's not pretend I have any will of my own where these stupid fictional soft bois are concerned.</p><p>Much more lighthearted camboy Jaskier shenanigans next, I promise!</p><p>Fyi, "Welly Boots" has ruined me. It also kicked my teeth in and left me for dead, so there's that. (I'm suing for damages.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt catches up with him at the base of that stupid fucking mountain that Jaskier barely managed to descend on his own, boots ruined and face stinging from the harsh wind.</p><p>"What," he says when Geralt pulls at his shoulder to both halt his continued steps and turn him around. He's had ample time to work himself into a rightful little rage. Falling on his arse half a dozen times in a row does that to a fellow, never mind Geralt's choice words.</p><p>The reply he receives is highly unsatisfactorily however you cut it. "I shouldn't have allowed you to leave on your own." Jaskier wants to laugh. And maybe foolishly take a swing at him.</p><p>But, regardless of circumstances, he's more of a lover than a fighter, though the impulse to smash his lute onto Geralt's head is mightily potent, he'll tell you that for free.</p><p>Narrowing his eyes, smile full of teeth, he responds with, "As you can plainly observe, I am in one piece, still." Then turns back around and walks off.</p><p>As far as he knows, Geralt doesn't follow him.</p><p>*</p><p>He happens upon a town soon enough. The locals have heard a few of his ditties, and coin falls easily into his pockets, enough to buy him a couple of bottles of strong wine, and a dingy little room mercifully coming with a hot bath, and solitude to think on what he's going to realistically do next, whether head to the coast or wallow in his sorrows from town to town. Not that he— It's just that— <i>Fuck</i>. It shouldn't matter anymore, they've parted ways, bluntly and unequivocally, but Jaskier's a little bit stupid like that, keeps flipping through the possibilities despite knowing it's <i>done</i>.</p><p>But, decision still unmade by the following morning, he starts walking west once the innkeeper politely yet forcefully asks him to vacate the room. The local baker happens by in a carriage and four, his wife evidently enamoured with one of Jaskier's ballads, and he makes good time to the next town, incidentally continuing his way west, so that's that, it seems.</p><p>*</p><p>The next town over becomes three towns in three days, his songs preceding him. It's a bit of a blur, but he's closer and closer to a destination, of sorts.</p><p>*</p><p>Against all odds, they run into each other. Again. More difficult than outrunning a plague, it seems, is keeping away from Geralt of Rivia, royal prat.</p><p>A creature is ostensibly butchering cattle and people alike, and the locals are edgy, ungenerous, prone to trading bloody barbs in the streets. Hardly the atmosphere for a bard. But the town transforms instantly once the creature is slain and the bounty collected, which is how Jaskier comes face to face with Geralt from across the room in the biggest tavern the town has, everyone from the butcher's boy to the alderman celebrating around them.</p><p>Scratches and bruises aside, he looks good. Unconcerned. Driven by purpose. The townsfolk give up the bounty readily enough. Jaskier takes mental notes, snippets of conversation all around him imprinting themselves onto his brain for later use, too busy making a hasty getaway to take out paper and quill.</p><p>Because the world clearly hates him, Geralt catches up with him outside by the stables. Jaskier finds he values his lute too much to throw it at him. Good to know he's still got a measure of self-control.</p><p>Facing Geralt once more, words come without much input from his brain. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were following me," he snarks. His heart is beating too loudly in his chest. Idly, he wonders if Geralt can hear it, whether that's a thing witchers can do.</p><p>"I'm not," Geralt says, deadpan, as if it were a genuine question.</p><p>"Hmm," Jaskier says. Wants to smack himself for it straightaway.</p><p>They stare at each other. It's beyond awkward. Would have been bloody strange if it weren't, just a little bit. From the corner of his eye, he thinks he spots Roach. He wants to giggle for no apparent reason, or merely because things never really do change, do they, but he doesn't, though Geralt must read something in his expression, because he asks, "What it is?" Sounds concerned, too. Now that's a laugh.</p><p>Head shaking, he mutters, "Nothing," but Geralt continues staring pointedly, expecting an answer seemingly, therefore Jaskier has to look away before he does or says something he can't take back. There's been enough of that nonsense as it is.</p><p>"Well. I'm off," he states after a long moment, chin tipped up, back straight, as if he's proving something. Although there's nothing to prove. He lingers, even though it won't change anything, has never counted for anything before.</p><p>"Right," he adds after more silence.</p><p>Grabbing at his arm to turn him around, <i>again</i>, as if that's the only trick he knows, Geralt ends up facing him, expression stony.</p><p>Preemptively, Jaskier says,"If you say anything about allowing me to do things, I swear I'm going to throw something." He might just, at that.</p><p>But Geralt doesn't. Shutting Jaskier up seems to be a theme with him, but this time there's no djinn magic, nothing more than Geralt leaning in to muffle Jaskier's mouth with his.</p><p>That's certainly one way of doing it.</p><p>There's something like hesitation there before the impact, but it happens too quickly, a look Jaskier catches more on accident than anything else, Geralt telegraphing his intentions as if Jaskier's about to move away, to stop if given the chance.</p><p>If that's the case it certainly backfires on him, what with Jaskier kissing him on impulse, because, let's face it, he's been aching to do just that for <i>years</i>. It's been decades, in fact, surely hardly anything much where Geralt is concerned, but half his life until now Jaskier has been thinking on and off of only this, how he'd go about it. Now that it's happening, it's more than he thought it would be, and it's completely an accident, a coincidence, Geralt most likely stumbling into him at the wrong moment and Jaskier reacting on instinct, merely circumstance.</p><p>It's hardly elegant. Far from Jaskier's best. Makes no sense why his pulse would be pounding in his temples and his insides raw.</p><p>He squirms away effortlessly, as if Geralt's got no stake in this. And he certainly doesn't, does he?</p><p>Once apart, Jaskier instantly says, "I didn't mean—" But he doesn't get much else out before he's being kissed again, open-mouthed, Geralt's tongue licking at his insides, gently, gentler than he'd have thought he would be, although he has little proof Geralt's anything resembling a rough lover. His thigh ends up shoved between Jaskier's legs, cosy beneath his balls even through his trousers.</p><p>There's people milling about. Not immediately in the vicinity of the stabes, but close enough Jaskier feels a tiny bit of a thrill going through him at the thought they should be discovered, even though that's stupid, they could get run out of town, but he finds he doesn't much care when Geralt's fingers scramble at his trousers nimbly and efficiently. In fact, his own hands go to Geralt's trousers, buttons yielding readily beneath his fingers, and soon enough he's got more than just a healthy handful to work with.</p><p>He's known for years it would be <i>a lot</i>. Stupid thing. Peeling back and away Geralt's smallclothes, he makes room for himself to use both hands, one at Geralt's cock bobbing freely between them, the other at his balls hanging heavily at the opening of his trousers.</p><p>Geralt's voice has always been several octaves too low, hitting him in his solar plexus, lava dripping down his insides, but it's the words which do him in this time around. "<i>I</i> did." An answer to Jaskier's earlier protest. Jaskier's cock gives a halfhearted jerk in his trousers, hardly unusual yet deliberate this time around.</p><p>Timing, as always, the worst and the best, Geralt gets him free as well to rub him confidently. The tip of a finger traces the curve of Jaskier's prick, root to cockhead, sticky pre-come clinging to it already and thinning out when he pulls his hand away. Blood thrumming, palm squeezing and releasing, fingers splaying out, no idea what he's getting himself into, Jaskier mumbles, "Don't tease."</p><p>Geralt huffs out something like a gruff laugh, but his hands drag the waistband of his trousers and smallclothes down all at once before palming at his hip bones, so Jaskier doesn't mind the lack of an answer. Minds it even less when Geralt fingers at his glans, then fists him, rhythm immediately starting up messy and a little frantic. Jaskier tries to keep up, tries to give as good as he gets, tries not to pump his hips too enthusiastically, but ends up wrapping his leg around the back of Geralt's to steady himself as he thrusts erratically into Geralt's palm.</p><p>His own hands must be inadequate, he's barely doing anything, mostly fondling inexpertly at Geralt's cock, fat and leaking in his hands, his head in too much of a haze to come up with much more. But it must be enough by some measure for Geralt's rhythm picks up, hips thrusting erratically in his hands before he spills in his hands.</p><p>That's about all it takes to have Jaskier shaking apart between them, too. Spine arching, his free hand sinking into silvery hair, he mouths at whatever part of Geralt's face he can reach, licking and kissing and trying his best not to fall apart even further.</p><p>"Where do you want to go?" Geralt breathes against his lips not long after. Rolls his forehead against Jaskier's.</p><p>"What."</p><p>He swallows, and says mildly, "You wanted to go to the coast." The heat of him is doing Jaskier in, still.</p><p>There's no space to move away. There's no air. "What is this?"</p><p>"Whatever you want it to be."</p><p>There's no space, yet he manages to turn his head away, to the side, enough to watch Geralt's face when he asks, "Is it? Is it <i>really</i>?"</p><p>And Geralt ruins him. Says, "Yes." Just like that. Like it's easy.</p><p>Maybe it is.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Will this go anywhere else? Who the fuck knows!? Not I.</p><p>Obviously kudos and comments will be greatly appreciated. Once more, I am sorry for threading the same ground over and over, but I am a sucker, that's fact.</p><p>Tumblr: <a href="https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/">rhubarbdreams</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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